Orphan of Angel Street

by Annie Murray

  But Tomek Petrowski noticed them almost immediately and strode across, talking fast, shaking Paul’s hand over and over. He motioned them to come and join his friends. They were a group of Poles, mostly men but a few women also. They all smiled and made welcoming gestures. Work-roughened hands were held out to them. Mercy saw Yola sitting watching her.

  She stepped over to sit beside her and everyone made room. Tonight Yola’s face was still tired, but relaxed. She welcomed Mercy happily. The baby was lying asleep in her lap, only her tiny face visible.

  ‘Hello,’ Mercy smiled. She felt such affection for this woman, strange as it was. ‘You look better.’ And Yola smiled and nodded back.

  Mercy leant round to look at the baby and for a time she and Yola communicated in a universal language of smiles and coos and baby conversation. They sat with their heads close together, Mercy as fair as Yola was dark. When Mercy told her how beautiful the baby was, Mercy knew she understood her meaning.

  Yola pointed at the sleeping child and said, ‘Peschka.’

  ‘Peschka? Is that her name – Peschka?’

  Yola nodded.

  ‘It’s very pretty. She’s very pretty.’ Once more lots of nodding and smiling and appreciating. Yola lifted Mercy’s hand and kissed it until Mercy felt quite tearful at receiving so much unbidden affection.

  Paul found himself plied with more of the fiery liquor by the men and this time he took miniscule sips. Mercy saw Tomek hand him a slip of paper and a photograph. Paul looked at them and nodded before handing them back. After a time he stood up, looking across at her, asking with raised eyebrows if she was ready to leave. She said goodbye to Yola and joined him.

  ‘I think I’d better go before they get me too tight to move!’ he said.

  They took their leave, smiling until Mercy felt her face might crack.

  ‘Let’s get some fresh air,’ Paul said. ‘Goodness – I don’t know what that stuff is, but it’s like drinking lava.’

  ‘What was it they were showing you?’ she asked, pulling her coat round her.

  ‘Well—’ – He stood back for her to go ahead of him up the stairs –‘it seems they’ve got some relative in New York already – the chap in the picture. A brother or cousin maybe? His is the address Tomek showed me and they’re hoping to join him.’

  ‘What d’you mean, hoping?’

  ‘They don’t just let everyone in, you know. They have to have all sorts of checks – health and suchlike. They look robust enough to me though. They’re from a village near Katowice – at least, I think that’s what he meant.’

  ‘They’re a lively lot, aren’t they?’ Mercy said. She found herself feeling anxious for them. ‘Imagine travelling all that way, starting a new life somewhere you don’t speak a word of the language. I s’pose she hoped they’d reach America before the baby came. I think they’re ever so brave.’

  ‘Yes.’ They stepped out into the dim light of the promenade deck. ‘Sobering thought, isn’t it?’ He chuckled. ‘Maybe that’s why they’re not keen to stay sober very much of the time!’

  They strolled along, passing a few other couples out to take the air. When they’d walked the length of the second-class promenade deck they stopped, as if of one mind and leant on the side to look out. Mercy breathed in the salt air, the wind buffeting her cheeks. Ever since she’d been aboard the ship her cheeks had taken on a healthy glow. They stood close together, hearing dance music drifting to them from inside, soft, then louder, according to the shifting wind.

  Mercy looked at Paul beside her, his pale profile, a lock of his hair moving in the wind, dark against his forehead, the long, slightly crooked nose, wide mouth. At the end of this, she thought, I’ll never see him again. And the thought was suddenly unbearable.

  ‘D’you think you could do it?’ she asked eventually.

  Paul turned to look at her. ‘What?’

  ‘Just up sticks and go, like the Poles. Leave everything – your house, family, country – everything you know.’

  Paul thought, staring out over the sea, biting his top lip.

  ‘Yes. I really think I could. It’s a peculiar thing. Before the War I felt British. English, let’s say. It seemed unthinkable that anywhere but England could be home. It was the centre of my world – the world come to that, so far as we were concerned. Now though, I feel I could live almost anywhere. It wouldn’t make that much difference.’

  He snorted. ‘We British are so self-important. I suppose instead of feeling English now I just feel human. Like one tiny dot in the human race.’

  Mercy listened to him with a strange mixture of emotions. Often when he talked she felt his sadness, the sense that through the War so much had been lost forever. Yet now there also rose in her a pounding sensation of euphoria. That was the other thing he made her feel – he gave her freedom, a heady feeling of excitement! Here, on this ship, she was not trapped by her past, her class, her circumstances. The ship was as class-ridden as anywhere else, but with Paul she could be anyone. She could simply be herself and that was all he required her to be. She moved a little closer to him.

  ‘How long will it take now?’

  ‘A couple of days.’ He spoke rather absently. ‘As I say, she’s not doing her best, nothing like, the poor old girl.’

  ‘I don’t really want to get there.’

  Paul remained silent. He continued to stare out into the blackness. She felt he had slipped away from her into the world of his own thoughts, leaving her bereft. They had so little time left and she wanted to talk and talk, but he suddenly seemed so distant from her.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ she asked eventually, in a flat voice. He agreed with a sigh, and as he followed her downstairs she was acutely aware of his presence behind her. She longed to know why he had gone quiet so suddenly.

  They stopped outside Mercy’s room. She had been afraid of finding Mr Adair pacing up and down again but there was no sign of him. She looked round at Paul.

  ‘What’s up?’ she said gently.

  His hands were thrust into the pocket of his greatcoat which was, like his suit, too capacious for his build. He stared at her, seemed to be looking deeply into her.

  ‘Paul?’ She moved closer, stricken by the look of him. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

  He shook his head and looked down at his shoes. ‘Nothing. Nothing that I can explain anyway.’ Looking up again he forced a wan smile. ‘Sorry – I can be a moody so-and-so. I don’t mean to be.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ she said, not quite truthfully.

  They stood apart, paralysed by the intensity of feeling in each other’s eyes.

  ‘Can I – I mean, shall we eat together tomorrow?’ Mercy asked uncertainly.

  ‘If you’re sure you’d like to.’

  ‘Paul . . .’ Lost for words to describe quite how sure she was, she said, ‘I’d like to. Yes. Please.’

  ‘Goodnight then.’ He turned away, towards his room. Then he looked back and said softly, ‘Sweet dreams.’

  Mercy’s hands trembled as she unfastened her dress. She felt churned up. She knew how strong her feelings were for Paul with far more certainty than she ever had with Tom. She had wanted to go to him out on the landing and take him in her arms.

  But she was very anxious and unsure. His melancholy eyes seemed to look at her from every corner of her mind. She didn’t know if he returned her love. Life had given her so little love, and she didn’t dare to expect it from anyone. Why should he feel the same? she thought. It had felt as if Paul was drawing away from her tonight and it all made her unsettled, full of longing, and afraid.

  She tucked Stevie in and lay down in her own bed, her cheeks burning. The pillow was not sufficient to cool them. She turned on her back, the light still on, casting a soft circle on the ceiling. All she could think of was Paul, his thin body wrapped somehow pitifully in that enormous coat, the way he looked at her, how tender his eyes had been at the sight of little Peschka, how she could speak about anything to him and fee
l safe, how kind he was. But maybe that was all it was – kindness? Even though he seemed to look at her with such feeling.

  She tossed from side to side. Time I turned the light off, she thought. But how ever am I going to get to sleep in this state?

  Eventually she got up, went to the mirror and unfastened her hair to brush it out. Her face was glowing with health, the reflection of her large eyes seeming to burn back at her. She brushed her hair forward over one shoulder.

  ‘I love you, Paul,’ she dared to whisper. ‘I really, really love you.’

  She put the brush down and brought her hands together, close to her face as if praying, giggling quietly at herself for her silliness. Then her face sobered. ‘Goodness only knows what he thinks of me though.’ She longed to feel certain, for the strength that would bring.

  A knock on the door made her jump. She listened, heart thumping hard. Could it be Paul? She flung her hair back and went to the door, not thinking of anything but that he wanted to see her again.

  ‘Please. Let me in. Just for a moment.’

  James Adair’s tone was so urgent, distraught, that she stood back immediately and he stepped into the middle of the room. He had no coat or hat on and his tie was pulled askew. Mercy closed the door and stood with her arms folded.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter? Is it Mrs Adair? If you’re worried about Stevie, he’s perfectly all right. I know he’s got a bit of a cold but look – he’s not even feverish or—’

  ‘No.’ He turned away from her. ‘No – none of that. Margaret’s asleep.’

  He sank down on the edge of her bed as if his legs had given way. ‘I was just getting ready to retire for the night and I . . .’

  He looked across at her and Mercy was startled by the anguish in his face. She stood before him, completely unaware of her effect on him, how in his eyes she looked like an angel in her white nightdress, the curves of her breasts, the mass of gold hair tossed down her back.

  ‘Mercy – oh God, God,’ he groaned, burying his head in his hands. She was appalled to see him begin to weep, dry, desperate sobs shaking his whole frame.

  ‘Oh goodness – whatever’s the matter? Please don’t, Mr Adair.’ She paced up and down in front of him, clasping and unclasping her hands, completely unable to think what to do.

  He raised his face and she saw tears in his eyes. He held out his arms.

  ‘Save me.’ He was past holding back now. Whatever was moral, seemly, correct, he was quite beyond all of it. ‘Please say you’ll come to me. I can’t stand it any more. I love you, Mercy. I can’t sleep. I can’t rest or work for thinking of you. Look at me! Before you came, I was a man asleep. I didn’t know it was possible to feel like this. All I can see is you until sometimes I think I’m making myself ill with it.’ He covered his face with his hands again.

  Mercy stood in front of him quite still, eyes wide and frightened. Her mind was in complete confusion. What Ruby had said . . . No, she had fallen asleep and this was a dream. James Adair sitting on her bed saying these things, crying over her, it wasn’t real.

  ‘If I can’t touch you I’m going to go out of my mind.’ He looked up again. ‘The very sight of you . . . I can’t go on like this, Mercy. You’ve got to save me.’

  Her mouth had gone dry. ‘Save you?’ She could barely get the words out. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Margaret wouldn’t mind, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ He stood up, words flooding from his lips which he’d said over and over to himself in justification. ‘She doesn’t really like – any of it. And she’s ill. You’ll be helping her, though of course she mustn’t know. It’s not wrong, Mercy, believe me . . .’ She was shrinking away from him, holding herself very tight. Blood pounded in her ears.

  ‘Wrong?’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  He seemed to loom over her and she felt tiny beside him. He put his hands on her shoulders. She saw his face twitch with emotion, his forehead perspiring.

  ‘It’s the best thing in the world, a beautiful thing. Oh, whatever it is, I can’t be obedient any longer. This has to be right!’

  Her mind seemed to have stopped working. She felt completely paralysed, unable to speak or think, she was so afraid. Surely he didn’t mean . . . She remembered Johnny pushing her up against the wall that night . . . Mr Adair wouldn’t . . . No, he couldn’t mean . . .?

  He turned her round to face the mirror. Her stunned face stared back at her. She felt it was someone else, a stranger.

  ‘Look at yourself. You’re the most lovely, perfect thing I’ve ever seen.’ He leant down and put his face beside hers. ‘Look at us, my loved one.’ She felt his breath hot on her neck. He pushed her hair gently aside and his lips brushed the flesh just behind her right ear. She could feel the prickle of his moustache. Somewhere in her mind a voice – not even a voice, an impulse – hammered, stop him . . . This is wrong. Wrong! But she felt hypnotized by the strength and authority of his desire. How could she argue? How could she go against Mr Adair? She should do something, say something, but she couldn’t speak or move.

  His hands moved round her, enormous and dark against the white nightdress. Trembling, hardly daring at first, then feverishly, he began to fondle her breasts. She heard his breath catch behind her and he gave a groan of surrender. She was mortified by his touch. It started to hurt and she gave a whimper – ‘Please!’ – which made him grasp her even more firmly. Her cheeks were burning. She felt dirty. This was wrong, all wrong, horrible . . .

  Help me – please, God Almighty, help me, she prayed. Help me tell him to get off . . .

  ‘Mr Adair!’ Tearful, she tried to turn and face him. ‘This ain’t right—’

  ‘Oh it is . . .’ He held her tightly. His body was strong, taut with need. ‘It’s the rightest thing that’s ever happened. I love you, Mercy. I adore you. This was ordained by the gods . . .

  He released her and began to fling off his clothes.

  I should run . . . She eyed the door. But where to? To Margaret? Paul? How could she go out there, half dressed, and admit this to either of them? It was impossible. And still she couldn’t scream, shout. Not to Mr Adair. She was trapped by his desire, his power over her.

  ‘I want to see you,’ he was saying. ‘To be naked with you. Adam and Eve in the garden . . .’ He was feverish with impatience, flinging his shoes across the room.

  Naked, he presented himself to her, walking towards her, proud, his body as a gift. Tears poured down Mercy’s face. She was shivering, wretched, afraid of him with his acrid, foreign smell, that cloud of hair at his groin, his . . . his . . . she couldn’t even say the word to herself . . . standing up like that . . .

  ‘Oh no – no!’ Her voice cracked. ‘I don’t like this. Please, Mr Adair, get dressed again. This is all a mistake. I don’t know how I’ve given you wrong ideas, but this isn’t right! You can’t mean to . . .’

  James came to her, arms outstretched and she shrank away, sobbing. ‘My dear, sweet, Mercy.’ He was a fraction calmer, and spoke soothingly. ‘Don’t be afraid, my lovely, my darling one. Don’t you see how much I feel for you? I’m going to help you. I want to be the first to teach you, to give you all the pleasure in the world.’ He bent to lift the hem of her nightdress.

  Pleasure? She found herself looking down at the back of his head where his hair was thinning. What did this have to do with pleasure?

  ‘Raise your arms,’ he instructed firmly.

  She resisted for a moment, but then half raised them. He pulled the garment roughly over her elbows. Mercy gasped as the cool air brought her body up in gooseflesh.

  ‘There we are, my love.’ He took one of her hands and held her away from him to admire her slim, curvaceous body. ‘How could anything so beautiful be wrong? You must believe that.’

  ‘What’re you going to do to me?’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘Come here.’ He pulled her into his arms, letting out a sound of pleasure as he felt her against him.

 
; ‘Please, just let me go . . .’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t want to have a babby!’

  ‘No, no – you won’t, my dear one. It doesn’t happen just straight away, you know, it takes some time. Believe me.’

  Her view of him was level with his collarbones and the sprinkling of sandy, curling hairs on his flushed chest. She turned her head up to look into his face, her eyes wide and welling with tears. Perhaps if she looked into his eyes, she thought, he’d see how much she wanted him to stop.

  But his hands were moving on her buttocks, pressing his body, jerking, against her, hard into her stomach. His eyes closed. He wasn’t seeing her any more. She cried out, horrified at the feel of his fingers between her legs.

  Abruptly he made her lie down. The bedcover felt cold against her back. She knew she couldn’t fight him. She must do as she was told and it might be over quickly.

  ‘That’s it – I need . . .’ He forced his way up hard inside her, instinct driving him. Mercy screwed her eyes shut at the tearing, burning pain. She whimpered, then it eased a little and he was thrusting, panting, groaning, anguish and relief at once flooding his face. His climax was intense, silent. Then he fell into her arms, half laughing, half weeping, twitching faintly inside her. Her tears trickled back into her hair. Every trace of her freedom and euphoria with Paul was wiped away. For those moments she was Mercy Hanley, rubbish off the street, something to be taken and used by everyone. She had never felt such despair.

  He kissed her wet face again and again. ‘You see? I told you, didn’t I? You angel. Oh, my little angel.’

  After he’d dressed himself and gone she lay, damp and burning between her legs. Her body felt very cold. She couldn’t stop shaking and weeping.

  Eventually, teeth chattering, she got up and washed herself, tears still rolling down her cheeks. She couldn’t bear the thought of ever lying in her own bed again. Climbing in beside Stevie, she wrapped her arms round him, curled up tight beside his innocent, oblivious warmth.